Of the scalp of the Corporal's wife.
The eight, they follow like swirled snow-spume,
A-drive o'er an ice-bound bar,
But the redskin's track is the dim cloud-wrack
That streams in the sky afar.
They ride till the hearts of their steeds are dead
And they gallop with lolling tongues,
And the tramp of their feet is a rhythmic beat
To the sob of their panting lungs.
And two are down in a prairie draw